


the end is just a bad dream

by juggyjones



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/juggyjones
Summary: Bellamy Blake has many bad habits, but his worst is falling for girls he can't have.[inspired by inside llewyn davis]





	the end is just a bad dream

**Author's Note:**

> this fic deals with heavy, mature themes that will be revealed as the story progresses and shouldn't be taken lightly. 
> 
> thanks to my wonderful beta, julia (clarkegriffintitties) for helping me out with this ♥️

the end is just a bad dream

_‘dirty fingernails, same as your mind,_  
_but he could strum the guitar just fine,_  
_every now and then he’d think about his life,_  
_daydreamin’ just to pass the time’_

His fingers slide across the neck of the guitar, the tips hard and rough from a lifetime spent on the strings. They change positions and the chords like dancers, applying pressure in all the right places. The other hand strums the same strings with a black, leather guitar pick in a dazing rhythm. On the verses, the pick rests and his fingers slide between the strings, tugging at them in an elaborate, dark manner. His voice is hoarse, deep and lazy, captivating in the way it soaks in emotion during some parts, and is dry at others.

Shaggy hair and worn out clothes, he is just the type of person who plays at the pub, unnoticed by any of the guests. There is nothing memorable about him, from his week-old stubble and greasy hair, grey shirt with tiny holes throughout it and his leather jacket with as many patches as there are years behind him, to his decades old guitar accompanied by his melodic voice that blends in with the chatter, as if arising from within the dark walls of the bar.

He finishes the set and few people clap. There’s beer already waiting for him at the bar and he sits down, watching as a kid in his late teens takes his spot, still a bright, nervous smile on his face. He greets the crowd, cheerfully, his face falling when hardly a head so much as turns in his direction.

The guy at the bar takes a sip of his beer, looking away from him when the kid begins his set, a dark smile creeping onto his lips. He slouches, both elbows on the wooden counter top, one hand laying on it with fingers tapping in the upbeat rhythm of the boy’s song, and the other holding a beer to his lips, never setting it down.

One of the boys who works here as an all-in-one approaches him with an almost empty tin. He takes it, throws all the money on the bar and gives the tin back to the boy, staring at the few coins without a word.

That barely amounts to twenty dollars, and that’s if he’s lucky. Five one-dollar bills, one fiver, and several dozen coins. He scoops it all up except for the fiver, sliding them into the one pocket of his jeans that doesn’t have a hole at the bottom. It clangs against his beat-up, five years-old phone.

He listens to the people. Most of the chatter is incomprehensible from the distance and blends together, like white noise for his thoughts. Some things he can pick apart, though – the voices he’s heard in more than a dozen visits to the Bunker, gigs or not. They talk about shitty politics like the rednecks they are, or complain about the weather or politics upstate. They whine about their wives and bad beer and neighbours who shoot their rifles at odd hours in the night, and praise hunting.

Some of his songs, he picked up here. They are snippets of conversations between life-long friends, or a man whose mistress had just found out she’s the other woman. Occasionally, people come here after they have been broken up with, and he listens, creating songs about them inside his head.

By the time he finishes his beer, the kid is just taking a break in the middle of a set. It’s his first time, judging by the lack of blood in his face and his feet shaking as he stands beside him, asking for a glass of water.

The kid looks at him. “You were great.”

All he gets is an empty glass of beer raised in a toast.

“Bellamy,” says the girl behind a bar, in a tender voice. “You should get some rest.”

The bartender is leaning against the bar, looking at him with the curves of her lips turned upwards. Her smile reaches her eyes and the look makes him not let his eyes wander to her chest, which is showing the slightest bit of skin.

Her smile drops a little and there’s the slight wrinkle between her brows when she frowns, studying him. “If you need somewhere to—”

Before she can finish, he slides her the fiver.

He doesn’t wait for the change. The night outside the bar is cold and harsh, cold wind nipping at his nose already. He wraps his scarf around his lower part of the face and tucks his hands into the pockets, his guitar hanging off his shoulder in its case.

His pace is slow, prolonging the walk to the park for about three, four minutes. He’s humming to himself the songs he never plays, and his fingers strum inside his pockets. There’s an old Johnny Cash song that crosses his mind next and when he closes his eyes, his shaky lips flutter even more. His leg muscles ache and his feet are swollen so when he finally reaches the park, he props them up on a bench he’s sitting on.

It’s a quiet park. It’s even quieter now, at nearly midnight on a Tuesday, when most residents are asleep or in the comfort of their homes, if they aren’t drinking themselves senseless while people, like him, sing to them. Polis is not really big for a park, so from where he’s sitting, in the very heart of it, he can almost see its every edge. There are wooden benches scattered around the place and several sycamore trees planted in ideal spots for people to sit under them, or have the whole view of Arkadia.

Now, these benches are slowly being covered in a thin layer of snow, soon to turn the park into a winter wonderland.

A few benches from him sits a girl. She’s wearing a crimson set of a beanie, scarf, gloves, and a black coat, shielding her face from him. Her hands venture into her pocket and take out a paper tissue, which she uses to blow her nose – not in the way people do when they’re cold. He then notices it’s far from the only tissue around her.

He’s never known how to deal with crying girls who aren’t his sister. This one isn’t his problem, but he can’t help thinking if she’s here, crying on a Tuesday night, maybe she’s just alone as he is – even though her clothes tell him she’s not in the same situation as he is.

So he does the only thing he’s good at – he takes out his guitar and strums it.

For a while, his fingers are playing a song of their own. His mind is wandering and he doesn’t know what to play for her. He’s bad at covering songs and none of his own seem appropriate, so he lets his brain go to a different place.

He’s not worried about her. He doesn’t particularly care, either. It’s simply that he’s cold and playing the guitar is going to warm him up, and she gets a free show.

Before he knows it, his fingers are strumming the chords to a song he hasn’t played in a lifetime. His voice joins in, deep and raspy, sharp at the edges, humming as he closes his eyes.

_‘Well we’re here,  
we’re at the common again’_

His voice suits the song’s emotion, as it always does when it’s so late, and it seems no time has passed since he sang it last. The words sound almost like an apology, or a prayer, and he’s reminded why he doesn’t play songs like these anymore. Even though his body responds to his thoughts as if he’d never stopped playing it, fingers knowing exactly where to be and others exactly which strings to pull, and his voice stopping at exactly the perfect places, it doesn’t feel like it’s him playing it.

The girl stopped crying, he sees when the song is over and has opened his eyes. Her body looks a little more relaxed now and even though she isn’t looking at him, he can tell she’s listening.

They’re the only people dumb or lonely enough to be at the Polis park at midnight on a Tuesday.

He feels himself grow a less cold, too. The night is still biting at the skin on his face and he fights it by playing yet another song he hasn’t in a very long time. Words come like a waterfall and he plays this song, and another one, and another one.

She walks over and sits by his side.

The yellow light from the lamppost falls softly on her face, barely illuminating her, but he can see the red freckles underneath her eyes from crying. He can see that her cheeks are red and lips blue from the cold, her face framed by a blonde bob hiding underneath her beanie. She isn’t smiling at him, but isn’t far from it, either.

“Not afraid of approaching a stranger alone at night?” he asks.

She smiles. “Should I be?”

He doesn’t say anything to that. There is no right answer, or truth. Instead, he rests his chin on the top of his guitar as his fingers do a random melody, one that he doesn’t think belongs to a song.

“Why are you playing the guitar in an empty park at this hour?”

He looks at her. There’s not a lot of emotion on his face for her to read. “Why are you crying in an empty park at this hour?”

Again, she smiles. It comes with a soft bow of her head and her looking away. “Fair enough.” Her fingers fiddle with a two-headed deer necklace. “Can you play another song?”

He does. It keeps him warm and he doesn’t mind her company as much as he’d think he would, because she’s as quiet as him and isn’t here because of him, but his music. How is that any different than what he does in front of a bigger audience at bars?

After a while, she blows her nose again. There are no tears in her eyes, but they are a little more bloodshot than before. He stops playing and looks around – they’re still alone.

“I think I should go home,” she says. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

She’s halfway out of the park when another melody comes from his guitar and she turns around. He’s looking at her just to make sure if someone tries to do something to her, he can stop it. He won’t go beyond that.

Lit by the lamppost right over her head and the yellow light now falling on her shoulders, she looks like an angel.

Too bad he doesn’t believe in them.

“Hey,” she calls out. “Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Riding with strangers, now?”

“You’re not a stranger. I see you playing at the Bunker every time I go there.” She seems to be grinning at him. “C’mon. That’s the least I can do.”

Her sincerity can be heard in the way she talks to him, so he gives in. They walk together to her car in silence – it’s a blue Honda, nothing special. He gives her an address and the words pass his lips like he’s said them a million times, so she doesn’t doubt them. She drops him off with another thanks.

As soon as her car takes a turn down the road, he spins on his feet and walks in the same direction they came from.

It might’ve been a lot warmer in the girl’s car than outside, but walking almost makes up for it. His guitar bounces at his back and he’s looking around, eyes scanning the surroundings in a familiar way. He doesn’t stop at the house with a crimson fence and dark blue façade, even if his pace slows down.

He’s almost at the end of the street when her car nearly comes to a stop on the road beside him. The girl’s driving matches the speed of his walk and when she rolls down her window, he doesn’t look at her.

“Hey, I think your phone ended up on the seat.”

He puts his hand into his pocket and it’s empty, apart from the money.

“Thanks.” There’s no eye contact when he takes the phone, neither does he slow down.

“Do you need somewhere to crash?”

He stops in his tracks. She’s biting her lip when he turns to her, looking more than just a little bit guilty.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry for being so blunt,” she says. “I overheard Gina sometime ago saying you were going to crash at her place and—I didn’t mean to intrude. I just have an empty guest room and if you don’t have anywhere to sleep, my place is better than the park.”

_Gina. Of course._

He starts walking again and her car follows.

“I’m sorry, okay? But I’m not going to leave you freezing to death. If you have somewhere to go, then let me drive you there.”

She talks some more and when it’s been over ten minutes, he gives in. She rolls up her window and turns up the heat, turning on a Top 40 channel on the radio. They ride in silence for a couple of minutes. His body adjusts to the heat and it’s the first time he’s felt fully comfortable—physically, at least—in what must be over a week. He still isn’t entirely on board with whatever her agenda may be.

Her fingers tap against the steering wheel and she’s leaning on the palm of her left hand, elbow propped up on the area below the window. She’s humming along to the song, too, one that he doesn’t recognize.

“I’m Clarke,” she says.

“Bellamy.”

She looks at him and smiles, almost as if it’s an apology and he finds it hard to resist. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re fine with allowing a stranger to sleep in your house?”

Clarke sighs. It’s odd, now, that he can’t think of any other name that would fit her. They’re in her car and she is in her element; she seems a lot more relaxed, even if he can still see the swollen area under her eyes.

“I already told you, you’re not a stranger. I’m friends with Gina and I’ve been to the Bunker a few times, she’s told me a lot about you. She didn’t mean to make you look bad,” she adds when he glares ahead, “and she didn’t. Having no home for almost two years and surviving on your own is an admirable thing, Bellamy.”

She wouldn’t think it’s admirable if she knew what he did to cause it.

“Look, I just want to help out. That’s all. Gina didn’t even say anything else about you, only how you’re a nice person who had shitty things happen to him, even if she didn’t know what.”

Gina doesn’t know what happened, either, and he intends to keep it that way. It doesn’t seem like Clarke is fishing for something, but her empathy and pity—even if she says it’s not that—cause his nerves to boil. He can’t argue in his favour because she’s the reason he will sleep in a bed for the first time in weeks, even if he’d rather she shut up about him and let them listen to the damn radio.

“Sure your boyfriend won’t have a problem with me staying?”

She doesn’t look at him as she takes a left, into the area of Arkadia where the people with more money live. Arkadia is a working class town, mostly, consisting of a majority of lower middle-class families. None of his friends lived in this neighbourhood and he doesn’t think he’s ever been here. It’s not the richest section, where the politicians and businessmen reside, but it’s more than he’s used to.

Clarke’s fingers are in her mouth and she’s biting her nails. “He’s on a business trip.”

They pull up in a driveway of a tall building and she parks in the underground garage. It takes a silent five-minute trip that includes an elevator and an incredibly long hallway to get to her apartment, at the very top of the building.

Now that they’re standing in the clear light, Bellamy watches her as she searches her purse for her keys. Underneath the knee-length coat that he now sees isn’t black but an earthly brown, she’s wearing a grey woollen sweater and black pants that almost look like skinny jeans, paired with navy boots. She’s full of curves and he wishes he didn’t notice that. Now, with her beanie off, he can see that there’s a red streak in her blonde hair that stands out from her polished outfit.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, _she’s the kind of person who lives in the rich areas._

As she rummages through her purse, he hears clanking of what sounds like a bottle of pills and there’s the definite whisper of a crunched paper. She finds the keys and leads them into the apartment, which is bigger than any place Bellamy’s ever been to.

She points to the hallway on her right, with two doors. “Left is the bathroom and straight ahead is the guest bedroom. Go put your stuff in the room, I’ll fetch something of Finn’s that might suit you.” She eyes him up and down. “You’re more well-built and taller than him, but his pyjamas will do.”

He doesn’t need pyjamas but he can’t recall the last time he slept in them. She leaves and so does he, walking into the room that’ll be his for the night.

There’s a king-sized bed in the middle of the creamy-coloured bedroom and a whole walk-in closet on the left side. The window that’s behind is bigger than the entire bed, high up enough to let only moonlight inside. The entire room is carpeted, with a door next to the closet leading into the bathroom. When he sits on the bed, it dips down – memory foam. There are five pillows, all different sizes and textures, all better than he’s ever had.

Clarke knocks and peeks into the room from the bathroom, granting him a smile. “Your stuff is ready. Leave your clothes on the floor when you’re done, I’ll wash them and put them in the living room. I’m not sure Finn’s clothes will exactly fit you, but I’m sure you’d rather wear his than mine.”

It’s supposed to make him smile; he doesn’t. “He lives here?”

“No, but he’s going to move in soon, so we’re in the process of getting his stuff here. These are the biggest I could find.”

“That’s fine.”

She gives him a nod and is already on her way out, her blonde hair swaying as she disappears behind the door, when he thanks her. It’s quiet and comes out unnaturally, but he still says it. Clarke just laughs and replies with something he doesn’t catch.

Bellamy waits until he’s certain she’s gone and only then he enters the bathroom.

There’s a shower with glass around it, a sink with a mirror behind which is a medicine cupboard and a toilet beside it. There’s another cupboard which he guesses is for clothes but is now a place for a towel, and a small trashcan beneath it, empty. Everything looks new and unused and _sterile_ , so when he strips down, he feels more vulnerable than he’d ever admit.

He doesn’t bother locking the door. If Clarke comes in and finds him naked, he won’t really care. It’s like he’s something worth seeing, anyway.

In the mirror, he can see his growing beard and moustache, uneven and resembling more a wild bush than anything decent. His cheeks are more hollowed out than the last time and the bags under his eyes nearly reach them – granted, last time he looked into the mirror it was bad lightning and it’s only now Bellamy sees how miserable he looks.

Country road truck driver meets grandpa.

The thought almost gets a chuckle out of him. Almost.

He’s thinner in his body, too, some of his muscle mass gone, even though he still looks bigger than most men nowadays. His skin is sickly pale and some parts have mystery bruises and the skin on his neck and joints is dry and cracked, filled with rashes.

His eyes fall on the unopened razor on one side of the sink and shaving cream on the other and that’s what finally makes him smile.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. When he looks in the mirror again, he calculates how he’s going to shave. He’s taking the opportunity Clarke gave him and using it to the fullest.

Feeling warm water on his skin feels like Eden. He rinses his body with an AXE body wash three times, just because he can. He’s in the shower twenty minutes more than he should be and by the time he’s finished, his fingers are all wrinkly but he feels like he’s managed to wash out everything that’s been bothering him for a while. It’s a breath of fresh air and he doesn’t smell like stale sweat and unwashed clothes, but like a man.

Then he looks in the mirror and it all goes away.

Clarke’s boyfriend’s clothes don’t fit him perfectly, but they’ll do. The briefs are a little bit too tight on him and the shirt allows for little movement, but the pants are long and soft and he doesn’t mind them. Knowing that they’re someone else’s make this experience a little more familiar and easier to bear than just using a stranger’s hospitality.

It takes him twenty minutes to shave because it seems he’s forgotten how it’s done. He thought about trimming the moustache and the beard, keeping them at a decent length, but Clarke only gave him a razor and he wasn’t risking it.

For the first time in a long time, he looks like twenty-five years old again.

He’s clean shaven, no moustache or beard, careful to not have a single stray hair. He takes out his sideburns, makes sure there’s nothing beneath his jaw. There’s a tube of moisturiser inside the mirror cabinet and it manages to make his skin seem like it hadn’t been burned by the cold for many days in a row. It’s not smooth, but it’s closer to it than he thought it would be.

Finding a new toothbrush and an unopened toothpaste, he brushes his teeth and wishes he could drown in how good his breath smells and how clean his mouth feels.

That’s when he finds out that once he’s opened the tap, he can’t close it. It’s stuck.

“Oh, _fuck._ ”

Panic washes over him. After everything Clarke’s given him, he can’t destroy her guest bathroom tap. Or the whole sink, if it goes deeper.

Bellamy puts his hands on either side of the sink and looks into the mirror, then closes his eyes. He can figure it out. It’s a simple tap and a simple sink.

Within twenty minutes, he’s figured out how to fix it by using the razor and some of the shaving cream. The tap can now be opened and closed with no problem and Clarke won’t even know he meddled with it. He can leave with a clear conscience when he wakes up in the morning.

He doesn’t leave his clothes on the floor, as instructed, but places them on the counter instead. The door leading into the bathroom from the hall is open when he goes to sleep and the one that leads into his room is closed.

The memory foam sinks his body when he throws himself at it. Moonlight is reflected on his muscular back when he takes off his shirt that’s constricting his comfort, and the whole room seems to be lit in a hazy silver. He thinks he can hear the birds sing, somewhere outside, and he falls asleep before he has the time to appreciate the first glimpse of luck in a long time.

When he wakes up in the morning, he finds his clothes folded in the living room, as promised, and puts Clarke’s boyfriend’s where he put his own last night. Clarke is still asleep and he leaves a thank you note on the table in the living room.

By the time she wakes up, at ten o’clock, he is long gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title from johnny cash's hurt. lyrics from sadderdaze by the neighbourhood and 102 by the 1975.
> 
> so, this is the first chapter - consider it a teaser. i'm actively working on this, but i'll start posting once i have a lot more written. i'd love to hear your thoughts and of course, constructive criticism is always welcome! why did you think clarke was crying? there are a few things that are symbolic or are going to have a role in later chapters, can you guess which these are?
> 
> feel free to contact me on tumblr, @reivenreies. thanks for reading!


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